During the late 1960's and 1970's, one of the great challenges this writer faced on Atlanta's Upper West Side was in finding a place to go parking with a date on Friday and Saturday nights - after the obligatory movie, pizza and/or putt-putt were done. Gasoline was cheap then, so riding around was not a problem, but it was extremely difficult to "get some sugar" while dodging Atlanta traffic. Creativity and defensive driving skills were a must. When the driving around finally grew tiresome, it was time to hunt a place to sit still for a while. Fortunately, a big place like the ATL offered many options.
Stop signs were a young man's friend on occasion. If driving with a succulent young female in the front bench seat next to you, stop signs could be a telling appetizer as to whether or not one should find a more suitable setting for ordering the main course. As one drives back through those neighborhoods these many years later, the memories of prolonged compliances with stop sign law are surprisingly recallable. With the onset in this country of the dreaded intersection round-about, it would be much more difficult in the modern vehicular world to enjoy the innovation of intersection kissing. Just another in the long list of reasons to be thankful for having been a child of the 60's and 70's.
Railroad crossings were also good places to swap some spit. The average freight train arriving or departing from Atlanta's massive Inman Railroad Yards was approximately seventy-five cars. I know. I counted them more than once. Depending on the speed of the train and the actual number of cars, a good railroad crossing lip lock session could last as long as ten minutes. This writer admits to stopping for a kiss or two even when a train wasn't coming. No sense in wasting a lawful effort to be certain of no oncoming train for miles in either direction.
On one occasion this practice yielded quite the unexpected - in at least two ways. First, the young lady, we'll call her Robyn, turned out to be an excellent kisser and quite the willing partner in railroad crossing ecstasy. She thought it was a neat idea. When we finished, came to our senses, and proceeded across the tracks, there was indeed a train - which we barely missed as we crossed the dual set of tracks. We laughed about that for the rest of the night - and for the rest of our time together as a dating couple.
Cemeteries were also an excellent place to test-drive a sweet pair of female lips. Dead folks do not snoop, nor do they ask questions as to why a 1972 Nova's windows were suddenly all fogged up. Too, the 8-track could play forever and not a soul would complain. Cemeteries are peaceful places. Unless one is a vandal or grave-robber, not a lot of folks crowd into them on a Friday or Saturday night. Since most young females are creeped out with being surrounded by graves and dead folks, they tend to be a tad more affectionate than normal. It is assumed that they figure the closer they are to you, the safer and more protected they are. Nothing could have been farther from the truth.
Drive-In Movies were an occasional venue for the late-night make out. Most everybody else was there for the same reason - at least the guys anyway. The potential distractions were, in fact, the movie itself, the smell of popcorn from the concession stand - which always seemed to take a young lass' mind off the kissing, and the fear that, "somebody might see us!" If the main feature on the screen was boring, it was, admittedly, a fun diversion to count all the fogged windows, and the rocking back and forth of one car after another.
Finally, there was the parking place of all parking places. The top of the mountain. The one place where no parents, police, or other intruders would ever think to look. Namely, Church Parking Lots.
CPL's are also quiet, peaceful, and uncrowded. The advantages are many. They have no dead folks to frighten the young Miss in your arms. They pose no danger of being run over by a runaway train. They have no honking traffic to remind you that you had been stationary for way too long at an intersection. And, most folks are routinely seeking excuses to stay away from church - even on a weekend night. Except for the occasional church custodian, deacon, Sunday School teacher, or preacher, it's just you, your partner for the evening, and the Good Lord.
On Atlanta's Upper West Side, the absolute best CPL, ever, was Collins Memorial Methodist Church on Bolton Road. There was a driveway behind the main building that blocked the view of passing motorists. There was an open field behind the main complex that allowed for watching a full moon in all its glory. But, the best place was the corner of the parking lot, just down from the church tennis courts.
There was a street light on the side of a telephone pole smack dab in the middle of the Collins parking lot. But, even with that hindrance, "The Lord doth provide."
Only The Lord Himself knew who was responsible for planting a water oak tree near the corner of that parking lot. Such a wonderfully enormous, old, tree must surely have been older than Methuselah, for it was large enough for Noah to have used in the building of the ark.
The water oak branches were filled with leaves in the summer. Huge limbs hung so low over that corner of the parking lot that no car could be detected from the road, the main building, or from any other direction. The seclusion factor was dead perfect. There were all kinds of unsuspecting motorists passing by only several hundred feet away. So, no excuse could be made that there were not enough people around. The camouflage from all eye-witnesses was so complete and perfect that no fear was possible over someone seeing or watching the festivities. And, being in the farthest corner of the lot from the rest of the facility made it highly unlikely that a parishioner would take note and call the law.
Good old Collins Methodist Church. A beloved first cousin sang in the choir there. My father and his family visited occasionally services there when he was a boy. Many of my high school friends' families were members there. And, numerous local organizations including Boy Scouts, Brownies, and Cub Scouts met there.
But, the greatest service offered by that special, old community landmark - with its white clapboard walls and bright red, wooden doors - was a safe, free, and uniquely solitary place to discover and experience the blessed transformation from boyhood to manhood. Assisted, of course, by angelic creatures of the blonde, brunette, and (at least one) red-head variety.
In the years that have passed since those glorious days, at every funeral or other community event attended by this writer, vivid images of a car that was never seen by anyone but The Lord and His angels come flooding back. If any of those young ladies who were guests in that car, in that place, on those magic nights, ever read this story, I hope their memories are as pleasant and thrilling as mine.
Either way, "Methodist Smooching" was an intensely enjoyable blessing.
Thank you, Lord.
Thursday, July 18, 2013
Friday, July 12, 2013
"Haircuts & Bluegrass"
This writer's father was born in 1920. Males from daddy's time wore their hair much shorter than females. Daddy never understood why young men from my generation wore long hair. He would often ridicule and rail against the practice, even calling me by cute, female names when my hair grew longer than his - just to drive home the point.
Until I was eighteen, and as long as I lived in Mama and Daddy's house, it was understood that I would wear my hair like a man. This meant regular trips to the local barber shop. In our little community of Riverside, there were a couple of places one could get a haircut. But, only one place where the patrons could get a haircut and enjoy a concert all in the same visit.
Smallwood's Barber Shop was located in a small, stand-alone, cement block building at the corner of Paul Avenue and Bolton Road. The tiny, cube-shaped, building had a large picture window in front. It was easy to tell if all the chairs were filled as you pulled into the rough, pea-gravel parking lot. Smallwood's was a man's place, and a true throw-back to barber shops of the past - complete with a rotating red, white, and blue barber pole at the front door.
I do not remember the first names of any of the Smallwood brothers, but there were four of them. One was tall, rugged looking, and seemingly the eldest of the clan. One was short and dumpy. Each one of the brothers wore the standard white barber shirts - with snaps up the side. Their barber chairs faced Bolton Road, presumably so that the customers could look out the big picture window at the passing traffic while getting their, "ears lowered." There were large mirrors that covered the opposite wall. Once your haircut was done, the brother doing the cutting would spin the chair vigorously around so you could examine the damage that had just been done to your head.
It is unlikely that any of the brothers ever graduated from barber school. I do not remember seeing diplomas on the wall. There were no sinks for shampooing, nor hair dryers. This was clearly not a, "hair salon." There were no style choices at Smallwood's. There was just one haircut - short, with "white sidewalls." Any one of the brothers could service a customer, in and out of the chair, in less than ten minutes. In every case the finishing touches were a sprinkle of witch-hazel, a buff or two with a brush filled with talcum powder, and the hair clippings blown from your neck and clothing with a tiny, high-powered air hose. Many were the times as a young boy that I begged to, "blow myself" - just so I could get my hands on that air hose.
Today, I am told that select hair styling shops offer neck and upper back massages with the price of a haircut. I cannot fathom what would have transpired at Smallwood's if one of the brothers had started massaging someone's neck after a haircut. But, I suspect it would not have been pretty.
One of the most memorable parts of the haircut at Smallwood's was the hot lather machine. In order to get a sharp edge on the white sidewalls, the brothers would use a straight razor and shave around the edges of the sideburns and neckline. The razors were sharpened on the big leather strap that was affixed to the arm of the barber chair. The deep warmth of the hot lather felt heavenly right out of the machine as it was smoothed along the sides of the face and neckline. Males must always fight the urge to pee whenever hot water runs over the back of the hand. That urge is a thousand times more intense at the sensation of hot lather on the back of the neck.
The "cherry on top" of the visit to Smallwood's was music. Bluegrass music. Each of the four brothers played, and all were proficient on different instruments. There was banjo, fiddle, mandolin, and guitar. Their instruments were always on display in the shop - leaning in a corner, or hung by a leather strap from one of the coat racks that lined the walls. If all four brothers were busy with customers, whichever one finished first (unless there were customers still waiting) would pick up his instrument and begin to play. As the other brothers finished, they would grab an instrument and join in.
It was not uncommon to see a shop full of customers, some still draped with barber cloths, tapping their feet and singing along as the Smallwood's played. Sometimes, clients brought their own instruments and joined in. It was a lot like having a daily, mini bluegrass festival in that small, community barber shop. Even the shoe shine boy would join in - playing either the spoons or the, "juice harp." It seemed to be understood, that even if you could not play an instrument, you were still welcomed to join in by simply tapping your foot or keeping time by the nod of your head.
Without question, had they even been around back then, there would have been no Taylor Swift nor Lady Antebellum numbers played at Smallwood's. Rather, the older and more obscure a song or artist was, the better the brothers liked it. Artists like Gid Tanner & The Skillet Lickers, and Fiddlin' John Carson were a staple in these jam sessions. An occasional number by Hank Snow, Ernest Tubb or Roy Acuff would find its way into the mix. As this writer grew as a musician, priceless history lessons regarding the music most indigenous to America were learned at Smallwood's Barber Shop. One can only wish now that the realization had come at the time regarding the pivotal nature of this exposure.
Sadly, one by one the Smallwood brothers began dying off. At some point during the 1970's, their little shop closed. I do not remember where Daddy went thereafter to get his haircut. But, I am certain that there was never another Smallwood's Barber Shop in his life. I am profoundly glad that now, these many years later, I can remember it being such a special part of mine.
Until I was eighteen, and as long as I lived in Mama and Daddy's house, it was understood that I would wear my hair like a man. This meant regular trips to the local barber shop. In our little community of Riverside, there were a couple of places one could get a haircut. But, only one place where the patrons could get a haircut and enjoy a concert all in the same visit.
Smallwood's Barber Shop was located in a small, stand-alone, cement block building at the corner of Paul Avenue and Bolton Road. The tiny, cube-shaped, building had a large picture window in front. It was easy to tell if all the chairs were filled as you pulled into the rough, pea-gravel parking lot. Smallwood's was a man's place, and a true throw-back to barber shops of the past - complete with a rotating red, white, and blue barber pole at the front door.
I do not remember the first names of any of the Smallwood brothers, but there were four of them. One was tall, rugged looking, and seemingly the eldest of the clan. One was short and dumpy. Each one of the brothers wore the standard white barber shirts - with snaps up the side. Their barber chairs faced Bolton Road, presumably so that the customers could look out the big picture window at the passing traffic while getting their, "ears lowered." There were large mirrors that covered the opposite wall. Once your haircut was done, the brother doing the cutting would spin the chair vigorously around so you could examine the damage that had just been done to your head.
It is unlikely that any of the brothers ever graduated from barber school. I do not remember seeing diplomas on the wall. There were no sinks for shampooing, nor hair dryers. This was clearly not a, "hair salon." There were no style choices at Smallwood's. There was just one haircut - short, with "white sidewalls." Any one of the brothers could service a customer, in and out of the chair, in less than ten minutes. In every case the finishing touches were a sprinkle of witch-hazel, a buff or two with a brush filled with talcum powder, and the hair clippings blown from your neck and clothing with a tiny, high-powered air hose. Many were the times as a young boy that I begged to, "blow myself" - just so I could get my hands on that air hose.
Today, I am told that select hair styling shops offer neck and upper back massages with the price of a haircut. I cannot fathom what would have transpired at Smallwood's if one of the brothers had started massaging someone's neck after a haircut. But, I suspect it would not have been pretty.
One of the most memorable parts of the haircut at Smallwood's was the hot lather machine. In order to get a sharp edge on the white sidewalls, the brothers would use a straight razor and shave around the edges of the sideburns and neckline. The razors were sharpened on the big leather strap that was affixed to the arm of the barber chair. The deep warmth of the hot lather felt heavenly right out of the machine as it was smoothed along the sides of the face and neckline. Males must always fight the urge to pee whenever hot water runs over the back of the hand. That urge is a thousand times more intense at the sensation of hot lather on the back of the neck.
The "cherry on top" of the visit to Smallwood's was music. Bluegrass music. Each of the four brothers played, and all were proficient on different instruments. There was banjo, fiddle, mandolin, and guitar. Their instruments were always on display in the shop - leaning in a corner, or hung by a leather strap from one of the coat racks that lined the walls. If all four brothers were busy with customers, whichever one finished first (unless there were customers still waiting) would pick up his instrument and begin to play. As the other brothers finished, they would grab an instrument and join in.
It was not uncommon to see a shop full of customers, some still draped with barber cloths, tapping their feet and singing along as the Smallwood's played. Sometimes, clients brought their own instruments and joined in. It was a lot like having a daily, mini bluegrass festival in that small, community barber shop. Even the shoe shine boy would join in - playing either the spoons or the, "juice harp." It seemed to be understood, that even if you could not play an instrument, you were still welcomed to join in by simply tapping your foot or keeping time by the nod of your head.
Without question, had they even been around back then, there would have been no Taylor Swift nor Lady Antebellum numbers played at Smallwood's. Rather, the older and more obscure a song or artist was, the better the brothers liked it. Artists like Gid Tanner & The Skillet Lickers, and Fiddlin' John Carson were a staple in these jam sessions. An occasional number by Hank Snow, Ernest Tubb or Roy Acuff would find its way into the mix. As this writer grew as a musician, priceless history lessons regarding the music most indigenous to America were learned at Smallwood's Barber Shop. One can only wish now that the realization had come at the time regarding the pivotal nature of this exposure.
Sadly, one by one the Smallwood brothers began dying off. At some point during the 1970's, their little shop closed. I do not remember where Daddy went thereafter to get his haircut. But, I am certain that there was never another Smallwood's Barber Shop in his life. I am profoundly glad that now, these many years later, I can remember it being such a special part of mine.
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